


Bitten Bics

by ForevermoreNevermore



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Needs To Use His Words, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevermoreNevermore/pseuds/ForevermoreNevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, for all of his words, can't quite get some things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitten Bics

**Author's Note:**

> The cure to my debilitating writer's block came at the hands of the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. So this story was inspired by the song, Your Song. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading!

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words,  
How wonderful life is while you're in the world. -Your Song, Elton John

___

It was starlight and the moon that were the lights to which Stiles scribbled and manically scratched out on a stack of papers. He'd scrambled over to the edge of the forest, out on the edge where the rocks jabbed at his knees as he let them dangle. Words poured in a stuttering flow from a tooth-mark ridden Bic. 

_Dear Derek, you're eyes are just-_

_Yo. I've never seen muscles so-_

_Derek, I think I could go a thousand years just living off of the look-_

He nearly scratched a hole through the paper on that last one.

_If I could have your fucking babies-_

Stiles ripped the paper in half and sat on it, ran a hand over his face and groaned. He pinched at his nose, jabbing his nails in a bit out of desperation. Two years. Two years and he still couldn't tell that asshole alpha how he felt. Two years of pining and two years of almost tellings. Two years of bit tongues and two years of a black hole at the base of his stomach.  

There'd come a point where he realized that there was no way he was actually going to be able _tell_ him. So... writing.

Well writing was a bitch and so was the pen he was holding, half a second from chunking it out off the cliff. Stiles let out another irrationally irritated groan and went back to his papers.

_I honestly just like the fact that you exist. Okay?_

Sounded like a ninety-nine cent Walmart card. The wind picked up, whipping the front of his papers up over his pen, jerking it down and making a comma out of the bottom of his question mark. Stiles was pretty sure if he could wolf out, he would've already. 

The air tasted bitter like rain and clean like autumn, and Stiles wanted to bundle up the poetic movement of the air and force it down onto his paper in black little words. That was how he felt. He felt as strongly as the stars glowed and as bright as the air smelt. As sharp as the oncoming rain and as gritty and honest as the dirt he'd ground up under his fingernails. 

He just, fucking, _wanted_ , okay?

Stiles gave a dull whimper and tore at that paper, too. Who the fuck would be able to interpret 'honest dirt' and 'bright air', anyway? And why the fuck did he think that-

"Stiles?" Halfway through trying to get up, Stiles' foot slipped and his yelp was part terror at the stranger and part terror at the fact that he might become a pancake. But, he managed to scramble back into the dirt and the rocks and watch as his torn pieces of lamented love went skittering into the waiting arms of the stranger. Derek.

Derek made quick work of picking up the pieces of scattered paper before the wind sent them into the woods unread and unconfessed. Which, coincidentally, was what Stiles wished he could do at that moment.

"Don't read those!" Stiles barked, hoarse. Derek raised his eyebrows at him, then glanced down at the little ghosts in his hands. Stiles felt his throat close up as he did just that.

So he managed to get up and walk over to Derek, reaching to snatch the small bits of paper away before things got too bad. But Derek's face was slipping from antagonizing to something else entirely, and his hand jerked out of Stiles' reach as he took a step backwards.

"Don't read those..." he said again, but this time just a whisper in the wind. The moonlight hit Derek's face at all the good angles and Stiles felt something fist in his gut. Something dark and wet and slippery.

Derek finally looked up, gaze sharp and face loose. An odd combination that Stiles found unnerving.

"Did you mean this?" Derek asked, tight. Stiles drew himself up and took a step closer.

"What are you doing here?" He countered, because the only person who those papers should've been read by was the wood in the drawer of his desk.

"Stiles-"

" _Derek_."

Derek turned his head lightly, weighing Stiles and judging. Always judging. Then he pointed weakly up at the moon.

"I was out for a run and I smelt you over here." Derek said quickly, shoving it away. He matched Stiles' advancement with one of his own. "Did you mean this?"

Stiles closed the distance and made to snatch the papers, but Derek was holding tight. His neck strained as he held in a sound, fingers curled tight around the confessions in Derek's grasp. _Don't waste this chance, don't waste this chance, don'twastethischance..._

"That depends..." Stiles cleared his throat and finally met Derek's gaze for the first time. "Because I can tell you if this-" he gave a tug to the papers, "is a mistake, then, it never happened." He stared defiantly up at Derek. "If you, though, if we can, these are-" he ended with an irritated growl and swatted angrily at Derek's upper arm. Derek gave him a shocked little look and was about to say something. Stiles cut him off.

"Why the hell do you think I was writing it, you jackass?" Stiles shouted into the air, into the sky, and straight to the moon and back. "If I could tell you I would've told you two years ago. For all of my words, for all of my witty fucking _banter_ , I could never say what was most important to me, and, for God's sake Derek, if I can say it now, when I've got some pathetic line about how I feel the same way about you as I do about the dirt then I might as well just go throw myself off that cliff."

Derek softened, face falling in a way that had Stiles cutting of a psychotic laugh when it was bubbling at his throat. Then he shifted, honest to God, Derek Hale shifted from foot to foot and licked at his lips, hand curling tighter around the papers.

"Don't do that..." he said, then tightened his mouth because, yeah, that's the thing to say.  Stiles frowned, held his ground, and waited. Because you don't yell at an animal to come out of hiding.

"Two years ago." Derek said slowly, measured instead of judged. "I'd say that's about it for me, too."

Oh.

Stiles let the laugh out then, a ghost weaving into the air, not psychotic, but blissful. It wasn't heavy, _he_ wasn't heavy. Derek's face stretched into a small smile.

"Well then, we're both idiots who don't know how to use words as effectively as the rest of the world, aren't we?" 


End file.
